


The Truth Shall Set You Free

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: Deception, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Past Rape/Non-con, Remorse, Rough Sex, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-02 04:24:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4045834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel to “The Darkness Within,” Neal must come to terms with having been held captive and raped. Eventually, this story evolves into a search for the person who was responsible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Since this story picks up almost immediately at the end of “The Darkness Within” found here at http://archiveofourown.org/works/3969317, it might be helpful to read that fiction first. It would explain some of the references in this story. Again, I want to add that Peter lovers will not be happy with his character and may want to pass on this. Just sayin’……..

     Awareness came slowly. Neal felt as if he was clawing his way through a sea of quicksand. His mind wanted to breach the surface above his head, while his body wanted to sink down and reclaim oblivion. If this was a hangover, it was the mother of all hangovers! His head felt muzzy and he was so very thirsty. Then Neal’s sluggish brain began to put the hazy fragments together, and suddenly it was frightening. He knew that he had been kept drugged while being held captive by someone that he never saw. However, the feelings of the brutal, repeated rapes were crystal clear in his memory. Oh, God!

     Taking a deep breath, he sat up slowly. Mindful of the aching pull in his right thigh from the healing gunshot wound, he listed onto his left hip. It was then that he felt the hard object in his pocket. Unbelievably, what he extracted from that pocket was a cell phone, and his heart rate sped up. It was then that he heard the ever so soft sound just beyond him in the semi-darkness. He looked up and his eyes grew wide as he noted the huge man seated in a folding chair staring at him. He was gently stroking a contented cat perched on his lap, and the feline was purring like an outboard motor boat. That was the sound which had drawn Neal’s attention.

     Neal froze. What new game was his captor now playing? He quickly activated the cell phone clutched in his hand—his only tangible connection with reality. He saw that it was 5:35 AM and the date was a whole seven days after his fateful rendezvous with some nefarious characters who had put a bullet in his leg and had left him to bleed out in a warehouse. He almost cried in frustration when he saw that even though the battery was fully charged, there were no bars indicating a signal. Well, at least he wasn’t restrained now and there was no blindfold, so this time he would put up the fight of his life.

     The titan of a man seated across from Neal studied him curiously as a small smile played on his lips. Moving very slowly, he delicately picked up the cat and placed it into a wicker basket. Then he tentatively held out an unopened bottle of water to Neal. Hesitantly, the young conman took it and was gratified to hear the plastic cracking as he twisted the cap. It had never been opened, so he felt safe to upend it and hastily guzzle down the entire contents. The towering, broad-shouldered stranger had resumed his seat and continued to smile. He had kind eyes, but Neal knew that appearances could be deceptive.

     “Who are you?” Neal demanded.

     Getting no response, Neal was not about to stick around and play “Twenty Questions.” He lurched to his feet, but as he took his first step, his right leg buckled painfully and he would have fallen to the concrete if the giant hadn’t reacted quickly and caught his arm. Teetering precariously on one leg, Neal pushed him away as forcefully as his weakened body would allow. His Good Samaritan stepped back and cocked his head, the smile still in place. After a heartbeat, he slowly extended a hand to Neal with his eyebrows raised in invitation. That hand was huge and calloused. Neal’s mind flitted back to those vague sensations during his captivity. The hands that had explored and invaded his body were not that massive or rough. Whose hands had done those things?

     Finally making a decision born out of desperation, Neal grasped the stranger’s hand and leaned into him slightly. A strong arm slowly encircled his waist as his quiet host took a lot of the conman’s weight. Slowly, one step at a time, they began a trek to somewhere. Neal wasn’t sure where they were headed, but at least he was on his feet and moving, and he took some comfort in that. Eventually, the two came to an ascending staircase. Taking a deep breath, Neal began the climb on sheer determination. His guide let him stop every few steps to rest, waiting patiently until Neal again raised his good leg and forged onward and upward.

     The duo repeated this slow, laborious task up two more staircases before Neal discerned breaking dawn outside on a New York street. The thoroughfare was deserted at this hour. The hustle and bustle of New Yorkers going off to work probably would not happen for at least another hour. Like a protective mother hen, the tall man gently led Neal to a vacant bench and lowered him down. He then just stood by patiently as Neal again tried to use the cell phone.

     “Please, please, please pick up, Mozzie,” Neal chanted in his mind.

**********

     Mozzie’s phone chimed and he stared at the unfamiliar number. Normally, he would have cautiously let it go to voicemail. But Neal had been missing for seven days without a word. That was ominous and disconcerting. The conman/thief had set off a week before to meet with a new fence to unload some recently acquired spectacular gems. Hale, their trusted contact for such matters, was out of the country at present, and there had not been time to vet this new source. Add to the urgency was the fact that a tenacious FBI agent was not far off their trail and making a general nuisance of himself. They needed to get out of Dodge sooner rather than later.

     Mozzie initially had Neal’s back as he covertly shadowed his partner to the meet—a deli in Lower Manhattan. However, that had been but the first stop. The contact had pulled up in a Ford Explorer and cajoled Neal into taking a ride to wherever. That was the last time that there had been any sighting of his partner.

     Neal would never intentionally remain incommunicado. Mozzie was sure that something terrible had happened. The little bald man had tried to stay on an even keel for appearance sake. Kate had been freaking out, and at least one of them had to keep a clear head. However, right now he answered his phone with trembling fingers, expecting the worst.

     Suddenly, he expelled a forceful breath as he heard Neal’s frantic plea to come quickly to pick him up at an address on Canal Street. Not bothering to awaken Kate, Mozzie broke all number of speed records racing to the place that Neal had indicated. He found the haggard young man slumped on a bench at curbside. A behemoth of a man stood stoically behind him like a cigar store Indian carved in wood. Diminutive little Mozzie approached cautiously, his eyes darting back and forth between the two men. The quiet sentinel never moved a muscle as Neal limped to the car, leaning against Mozzie for support. When Mozzie secured his passenger in the seat belt, he couldn’t help but notice the angry abrasions on Neal’s wrists. What else did his clothing hide?

     “What the hell happened, Neal?” Mozzie asked in a rush. “You look like death warmed over, and you can hardly walk! What did those clowns do to you?”

     “The deal went south, Moz,” Neal answered softly. “They thought that they had killed me after they took the gems. They were tying up loose ends and that’s what I was to them. Now, could you just take me home and not ask anymore questions, please.”

     “Seven days, Neal, seven days! You were gone for seven days,” Mozzie didn’t know how else to broach the uncertainties that were in his mind.

     “Mozzie, please, just take me home,” Neal begged.

     So that is exactly what Mozzie did. Kate was awake when the two pushed through the door of the apartment in Queens, and her jaw dropped when she took in Neal’s battered appearance. She rushed to his side, but he held her back gently, kissed her on the cheek and retreated to their bedroom. The definitive click of the lock on the door was audible, as was the cascade of the shower in the adjacent bathroom. The running water continued for over a half hour.

     Because Mozzie was just as much in the dark as Kate was, she was determined to get some answers. She pounded on the door in frustration. She demanded, she pleaded, she cried and she pouted—all to deaf ears within the bedroom. The barrier continued to separate the occupant within from those who cared about him.

     Neal’s self-imposed isolation continued for three days, fraying everyone’s nerves almost to the breaking point. On the second day, Mozzie had braved Neal’s wrath by picking the lock and entering with a tray of food and drink. The inert young man lay prone on the bed in only a tank top and briefs. Mozzie noted a small, round, healing wound on his thigh. He also took in the cornucopia of bruises that were like a roadmap that led to hips bracketed by purple fingerprints. There were fading red rings around his ankles that matched the ones on his wrists, and that made Mozzie’s stomach clench and face a truth that he never wanted to voice out loud. Neal just lay like a zombie and never acknowledged his partner’s presence.

     Kate, now in a snit to end all snits, camped out every evening and for a good portion of the morning hours in Mozzie’s bedroom. The little bald man had gallantly taken the couch, and he was perched there when, on the fourth morning, Neal emerged from his haven dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. Without a word, the silent young man fished a plastic trash bag from under the sink and filled it with the clothes that he had been wearing when Mozzie had rescued him. He then silently left the apartment, stopping just briefly to send the garbage bag on a descent down the waste chute. Mozzie continued to shadow him at a discrete distant when the journey proceeded along a sunny New York street. There was just no way that he was letting Neal out of his sight again. Neal’s steps were slow, but he walked with a purpose. It came as no surprise to intuitive Mozzie when he saw his young friend walk into an AIDS clinic. When Neal emerged a half hour later, Mozzie was waiting. The two men stared at each other, but no words were needed.

     Mozzie’s silence and his reticence to question spoke volumes. Neal’s cohort felt a profound sorrow and a sense of helplessness, but he knew instinctively that Neal would be uncomfortable with pity. So, he simply clapped his best friend on the shoulder and offered him the Styrofoam cup of gourmet coffee.

     Three days later, Neal decided to rejoin the human race again after receiving a phone call. He apologized profusely to an angry and baffled Kate, and suggested to Mozzie that since they needed to restock their coffers, Europe sounded like a plan.

     An overnight transatlantic flight took them to the lovely Costa del Sol on the coast of Spain. Neal had now taken Kate to his bed once again and kept her contented and happy. It was only Mozzie who noted the haunted shadow that would occasionally cross Neal’s face as they sipped their wine by firelight late into the night after Kate had gone to bed. Mozzie ached for his friend who had wounds that they would never see. Neal kept them locked away inside and sublimated the nightmare into an almost manic frenzy of robberies and heists.

     A meticulously planned job netted them a valuable Goya from the Prado Museum in Madrid. Renoir artwork eventually disappeared from the Louvre in Paris, and precious ancient gold coins departed Florence, Italy. They even made a foray into a Scottish castle for booty just because Neal said that it was a challenge. He was like a kid in a candy store wanting everything that he saw. There was no rhyme or reason to his choices. Mozzie and Kate simply held on for the quixotic ride, and neither was very surprised when Neal announced one evening that the Scandinavian countries were next on the world tour.

     Alex Hunter joined their merry little band of miscreants for a time, which put Kate’s nose way out of joint. Female competition was not something that she wanted on her agenda. When Neal explained that Alex was essential to the next job, Kate declared that she was definitely not going to endure this little criminal ménage a trois another minute, and departed in a huff. When that dangerous endeavor ended badly for Alex, it seemed to sober Neal somewhat, and he and Mozzie returned home to New York. Of course, Kate had made herself scarce just to punish Neal, and it drove him crazy.


	2. Chapter 2

     Peter Burke was back in his position as lead agent in New York’s White Collar division of the FBI. He was eternally grateful that his short leave of absence had not set off any alarm bells or prompted many questions. He had enough on his mind trying to deal with the overwhelming guilt gleaned from the last seven days. Having maliciously harmed another person ate at his very core as he tried to fathom the malevolent darkness that lurked within him. No matter how hard he tried, he could never find any answer that would justify his sociopathic conduct. Perhaps there were no pat answers. Maybe his actions were just a visceral response to damaged, dysfunctional DNA, and he was doomed. His more logical side refused to accept that! People were responsible for their actions; they were not simply puppets manipulated by their genes. They could change if they were motivated.

     Therefore, in an effort to get through each day, Peter buried himself in a heavy workload. He could and _would_ handle his problems and turn his life around! Whenever vivid nighttime dreams involving his obsession overflowed into the daylight, he tamped down his lust for the young man by exhausting himself with brutal marathon runs or viciously competitive games of racquetball.

     Eventually, as time marched on, the nightmares turned into something softer and more satisfying. In these new versions, he saw a handsome and vibrant Neal stretched out before him. Gone was the blind, bruised, and bloody victim of Peter’s wrath. This Neal was smiling beguilingly and begging Peter to fuck him hard as the agent caressed and teased his beautiful body. Peter always awoke from these images hard and throbbing.

     After that ignominious week of depravity, Peter had stopped visiting the escort services in Philly and Atlantic City. Now he felt like a damn monk living a celibate existence in a monastery. His own hand was the only thing that got some action, and the relief was short-lived. Peter began to think of himself as an addict, trying to cope just one day at a time.

     In the real world of White Collar, Peter could not ignore Neal completely since he was on the “Ten Most Wanted” list. So he did his job and continued to keep a vigilant eye for any suspected Caffrey crimes on the radar. Nothing was happening on the home front, but, after a few months had gone by, reports from Interpol alerted him to the fact that Neal had decided to go on a wild larcenous spree across the Continent as well as the Baltic states. The crimes were stupendous, foolhardy, and thoroughly impressive.

     “ _You are a very busy and clever boy, Neal,”_ Peter mused. “ _What are you hoping to accomplish with this manic madness? Are you simply attempting to vanquish the phantom fiend in your dreams with feats of life-threatening daring? Perhaps both of us are just trying to deal with what happened that week in our own feeble way.”_

     The authorities abroad seemed completely powerless to stem the continuing onslaught of crime. Thus, Peter stepped up to the plate with his own resources. He was prepared to act on new information that had come right from the horse’s mouth. Neal had admitted that he had a best friend and a girlfriend. The FBI agent dug deep, but try as he might, there was absolutely nothing to unearth regarding a male accomplice. If the guy was in play, he was extremely wily because no one had ever gotten a glimpse of his shadow. Whoever he was, he remained virtually invisible.

   Now the girlfriend was another story. Kate Moreau was easy to track down. She was also young, beautiful, and vapid, in Peter’s estimation. In fact, she was the epitome of egocentrism. Peter and his team had picked her up for questioning recently, but it was a wash. Peter was sure that she had no idea where her boyfriend was at the present time. Actually, she really didn’t seem to care where Neal was, and Peter thought to himself, _“You foolish, foolish little twit. Do you have any idea what you are throwing away? Neal deserves someone so much worthier than you!”_

     Regardless of Peter’s poor opinion of Kate, she made the perfect lure that he dangled enticingly in front of a lovesick and headstrong young man. Somehow, Neal’s capture was a pyrrhic and hollow victory. Peter had not outsmarted Neal; he had simply resorted to subterfuge. He didn’t feel that he had truly earned that handshake and Neal’s gratitude. Peter had acted smug at the takedown, but that was all an act. He was merely trying to mask a fluttering in his stomach as he shook Neal’s hand, wondering if somehow Neal would intuit a connection between him and that week of debauched torture.

     Peter was surprised when the trial was over and Neal got four years of hard time in a maximum-security prison for a first offense. That was going to be a long time for Peter to fantasize and to wonder if he could rein in his fixation. That was a long time to worry that perhaps another inmate was enjoying what Peter had only briefly tasted. It was just a long damn time to chase after stupid, third-rate criminals who couldn’t hold a candle to Neal’s brilliance, and an eternity to be bored and adrift without the panache of his talented adversary.

     Almost all of those four years passed quietly, although Peter did receive yearly birthday cards that went into his clandestine Caffrey box of treasures stored deep within his bedroom closet. Peter crossed off the days until the convict’s release, unaware that Neal was doing the same on the wall of his cell. Within a few months, the reckless rebel would be out and about, and Peter secretly hoped that their game of unorthodox one-upmanship would be resurrected. He truly loved a stimulating challenge, and a Neal on the run was so much more evocative than picturing a Neal cooped up in a cement, windowless box.

     Paradoxically, it was shallow, self-absorbed little Kate who was the linchpin that upset the applecart. Without warning, she suddenly put a new dynamic in play. Her unfathomable, mercurial whims had brought Neal into Peter’s crosshairs once again, and, in the blink of an eye, Neal was suddenly fettered to Peter for four more years. In essence, he owned the handsome conman with his ocean blue eyes and charming smile. Neal would be at his beck and call 24/7. Peter could show up at his apartment at any hour, he could search his person, he could even put him in handcuffs. It was heady stuff to have this much power, and it would be the true test of Peter’s fortitude.

     Neal’s presence in White Collar was a double-edged sword for Peter. As a team, they closed an astounding number of intricate cases and the statistics in the agent’s personnel file were impressive. This feat did not happen in a vacuum. Peter had to stare at Neal each day in those tailored suits that fit him like a glove and stretched tauntingly across his ass. He had to sit almost knee to knee beside him during long hours of surveillance in the car and the ungodly claustrophobic van. He had to endure whiffs of the guy’s expensive aftershave and listen to his lilting laugh across the bullpen. It was hell to stare into startling blue eyes that sometimes mocked as well as titillated. He could look but not touch this tempting entity that was his in all ways except the most important one. If there was a supreme being calling the shots and orchestrating little dramas for his own amusement, then Peter was the designated stooge in this story. It was Peter who suffered, doing penance for his past sins. God must have a wicked sense of irony and was laughing His head off at the agent’s discomfort.

**********

     Somehow, the two men managed to coexist in the same orbit without Peter self-immolating in a burst of flames. However, everything went off the rails one cold winter day when Kate became the one to leave this earth in an inferno.

     Peter always knew that Kate was the prize that Neal was seeking while he patiently bided his time pacifying the FBI. His fidelity would always be to her before anyone or anything else. Peter had threatened, bargained and coaxed trying to get Neal to focus on the positives in his new life—reasons to stay on the straight and narrow, reasons to stay by Peter’s side. Nothing that he said seemed to dilute the young woman’s Machiavellian influence over her lover, and Peter knew in his gut that nothing good would come of it. The most frightening thing was the fact that Neal could actually pull off a legally sanctioned vanishing act compliments of a splinter group within the FBI. Peter would never see him again, and that cold fear clutched at his heart. That was why he chased Neal down to that lonely hangar on the Hudson while a small private plane’s engines revved on the tarmac and Kate, damn her, beckoned alluringly.

     What should have been a fantasy come true for Peter was, in fact, a living nightmare. He finally got to put his arms around his obsession and hold him tight to his chest. He got to rock him, brush his disheveled hair back, and run his hands tenderly down Neal’s face. However, wiping ash, soot, and hot tears from the devastated young man’s eyes was not part of that dream. Flashes of déjà vu kept playing in his mind as he said the same words over and over from long ago.

     “ _I’ve got you, Neal. Hold on. I’ll take care of you_.”


	3. Chapter 3

     Try as he might, nothing that Neal did could eradicate those feelings of being helpless and hurting during his brutal rapes. The foolhardy spree of crimes throughout Europe was but the first attempt to bury a sensation of being completely powerless. If he just kept moving at breakneck speed, taking dare devil risks with his life, he would not have time to think and to dwell on his supreme humiliation. However, all of the frenetic activity did nothing to alleviate his pain. Those gnawing pangs persistently plagued him, even though he never talked about them to anyone. Kate could never know the truth. He did not want to taint her with his filth. He always felt dirty, like he was coated in slime that the hottest of showers or the coarsest of soaps couldn’t scrub away. Of course Mozzie, both perceptive and sensitive, knew the reality, but being the benign friend that he was, never uttered a word. That suited Neal. He didn’t think that he could ever put a voice to his shame. He wished that he could feel anger towards his rapist, but he could never seem to summon up the energy that was sapped by illogical and unwarranted guilt.

     Prison was hell for Neal, not because of the confinement or the monotony. It drove him crazy because it gave him too much time to think. Kate was his only lifeline to what was pure and beautiful in an ugly world, and, when she abandoned him, he resorted to being reckless and stupid once again. However, he had managed to turn that around by using a con to draw in his old adversary. Peter Burke thought that he now owned Neal body and soul, and the young criminal let him labor under that deception. The stupid tracking anklet was a joke. However, right now Neal needed time to get information and formulate a plan. For once in his life, he was going to be patient and bide his time. This go-around he would be cautious and make things work.

     Neal played the game with his White Collar jailer. It should have been a walk in the park to manipulate him. However, Peter was an enigma to Neal; he could never really read the man’s inner depths. To give credit where credit was due, Peter Burke did display a sort of brilliance at times. It was also obvious that he liked to be in control and to wield his authority, and he definitely relished the fawning of the sycophants on his team. So, Neal stroked his ego when it suited his needs, and he wondered if the egomaniac ever knew that his placid CI was being duplicitous. To that end, the conman was ever vigilant while he watched Peter’s face for tells.

     Neal had started to catalogue the expressions on Peter’s face. Know your mark, right? There was the flinty-eyed squint when the agent suspected something was off, the wide-eyed but perceptive stare when enticing a criminal to spill his guts, and the raised eyebrows and little smirk when he suspected that Neal was lying to him. However, some of the sidelong looks puzzled Neal. Occasionally he would catch the agent staring across the bullpen from his elevated office, and then, like smoke, he would suddenly be looming over Neal’s desk. Sometimes, their relationship seemed vaguely out of kilter. Neal knew what _he_ was trying to hide, but what was Peter’s agenda?

     Then, one day like a bolt out of the blue, it hit him. Peter wanted Neal, and not just for his expertise in solving a crime. He had a hard on for his CI! Wow! Neal could do some real damage with this little tidbit of information that he should have glommed onto months earlier. Hell, all the signs were there—the tentative hand to the back of his neck or small of his back that self-consciously turned into a macho punch on the arm. Then there were the many lunches for just the two of them, and the time spent in Neal’s loft over bottles of beer and wine. Neal had just assumed that the agent was trying to forge a friendship to keep Neal grounded. Then he recalled the time that Peter almost beat a perp to death who had used Neal as a punching bag just a few minutes earlier. Members of his team pulled Peter off the guy, and his injuries were said to have been sustained in a fall down the steps when the actual report was written up and filed. Peter’s fury had been out of control because someone had hurt his possession.

     Neal found that just because his keeper had the hots for him did not mean that he made Neal’s life any easier. In fact, the unwavering attention could possibly interfere with his plans to grab Kate and forge a new life. “ _Focus_ ,” he would tell himself. “ _Tap dance as fast as you can, but keep your eyes on the brass ring_.”

     In the end, it didn’t matter how centered he was. Peter had it all figured out anyway, and did everything that he could to derail Neal’s dramatic exit. Unexpectedly, for just a moment that snowy day, Neal felt torn, and that frightened him. However, his dichotomy of the soul was quickly forgotten when the roar of the stupendous explosion at his back took away his reason for living.

     Later, he would remember little of that surreal time, just disjointed sensations and flashes that played like little mind movies in his brain. There was the whiff of burning jet fuel, a feeling of hard concrete under his body that somehow was no longer upright, and strong, vice-like arms holding him against a broad, unyielding chest. Sometimes, at night, he could hear the faint words that somehow seemed so familiar.

     “ _I’ve got you Neal. Just hold on with everything that you’ve got. I’ll take care of you_.”

     Were these words that had really been spoken, or had he imagined them, dredged them up from an older memory in his brain? They niggled at the edge of his consciousness, and sometimes he imagined that it was Peter’s voice speaking to him. Did Peter say these words that day at the hangar when all Neal could remember was the roaring in his ears as his mind shut down? Before he could even zero in on that moment, he was wrenched from the agent’s grip and taken away by the US Marshals.

     Being back in prison somehow felt comforting in a bizarre way. Neal did not have to think, he just had to react to whatever they told him to do. Other people dictated when he should eat, when he should sleep and when he should wake up. He didn’t have to make any decisions. He could just be an automaton and get through the hours. However, Peter, damn him, was the one who wrenched Neal back to a reality that he didn’t have the heart or the wherewithal to face.

     The first few days back in White Collar were draining. He went through the motions, did the impossible when the job required it, but he felt like only part of himself still existed. Peter kept asking how he was holding up, so Neal gave him the answers that the concerned agent wanted to hear and tried to hide his shaking hands. Only in the darkness of his loft did he allow the mask to deteriorate. Mozzie tried his best to be supportive, although Neal suspected that the little man was not truly grieving for Kate. Neal was intuitive enough to realize that his friend had never really approved of his protégé’s paramour. He tolerated her as a fait accompli and made the best of it for Neal’s sake.

     The young man’s psyche was slowly leaching away, and he knew that mentally he was circling the drain when Peter suddenly appeared at his door one night. Absent was the cold six-pack of beer. The brown bag contained some very high-end single malt scotch. Neal was a lightweight when it came to hard liquor. He had always favored the delicate essence of a respectable wine. He would nurse one glass a sip at a time to explore its splendor, so losing his inhibitions to a drunken spree never happened. Now, at Peter’s urging, he found that he really didn’t care if he got shit-faced drunk. Neal Caffrey, for once, did not want to try to maintain his elegant image.

     At some hazy point during those long night hours, the room started to spin and he was vaguely aware of being helped to his bed. Was it Peter who was removing his clothes? For a frightening second, Neal thought that he may have gotten sick and vomited on himself, and he was morbidly ashamed. Then he found that he really didn’t care anymore.

     Time lost all meaning, and the next sensation of awareness was pleasant in a primal sort of way. He tried vainly to focus when he realized that someone was caressing him tenderly. It had been so long since someone had touched him that way, and his body responded by seeking out the warmth and comfort of what felt so good. Neal’s addled mind tried to wrap itself around the concept that it wasn’t the lush softness of Kate that he felt. The body looming over his was broad and hard, and suddenly he felt confined and a frantic panic took over. As if sensing his terror, the ethereal presence retreated to Neal’s side, but did not stop the tactile comfort applied by gentle, teasing hands. Was he dreaming when he opened his bloodshot, blue eyes and looked into Peter’s deep brown ones?

     Like standing outside of himself, Neal watched in fascination as Peter’s hard, throbbing penis prodded Neal’s lower abdomen alongside of his own full-blown erection. His keeper then slowly encircled both of their eager cocks in his hand and, with a steady grip, worked them up and down to produce exquisite friction. They both came almost simultaneously, and, after Neal caught his breath, the blessed oblivion of unconscious sleep claimed him.

     Perhaps it was hours later when Neal again re-awakened, still naked but smelling of the expensive scented soap that was in his bathroom. There were just the thin wisps of a dream lingering—“ _I’ve got you, Neal. Just hold on. I’ll take care of you.”_ There was also the pounding of anvils within his brain. Had anything been real, or was that evil demon ‘scotch’ playing tricks on his mind. Peter’s presence in Neal’s bed ended that line of conjecture!

     The undeniable reality lying next to him smiled at Neal’s alarmed look and brought his lips softly to Neal’s. The confused young man then opened his mouth to say something, although there seemed to be a disconnect between his brain and his tongue. Before he could formulate any words, Peter’s mouth was once again on his, and it was Peter’s tongue that was avidly exploring those depths.

   Unbidden desire made Neal’s cock twitch. Peter felt it against his leg and slid down slowly, taking Neal into his mouth. Neal’s breath caught with the exquisite feel of Peter’s attentions, and he grew turgid and straining. With the innate masculine knowledge of what felt good, the older man licked and sucked until he made Neal climax in a burst of cum that the agent swallowed down greedily.

     When the world stopped spinning, Neal tried to reciprocate, but Peter insisted on pulling Neal’s body on top of his own and rutting against him until the spasms overcame him, and he, too, was panting hard with exertion. The essence of the agent’s sweat mixed with the smell of his cum, and it was almost as if a miasma hung in the air. Inexplicably, and without warning, a sudden nausea wafted through Neal’s stomach. He took deep breaths to quell the unpleasant sensation that he suspected was a byproduct of too much alcohol, but it passed quickly and was all but forgotten when Peter was again softly crooning and petting him.

     Neal had never considered a male liaison during his lifetime. He had the occasional dalliance with young girls while growing up, fumblingly adolescent in his endeavors, learning as he went until he became familiar with a female’s secret depths and what pleased them. However, when Kate had won his heart, he desired no one else and was content, even though he sometimes suspected that she used her feminine power for reasons that were not always motivated by love. But when Neal Caffrey loved, he loved with his whole heart and soul. Now Kate was gone and there was an aching void where his heart used to be. He suspected that Peter was trying to fill him up again so that he could heal, and Neal was suddenly pitifully grateful.


	4. Chapter 4

     Peter returned to Neal’s loft on the next two consecutive nights bearing gifts of Indian food, and then Thai carry out. Neal felt as if he was being wooed by a suitor, and he let himself just drift along on the tide. Over the weekend, the agent appeared, toolbox in hand, with a new key lock and deadbolt in a hardware store bag.

     “We’ve got to make sure to keep the little guy out when his presence is unwanted,” Peter remarked as he drilled and fiddled things into place.

     Neal just arched an eyebrow cynically. “Do you really think that is going to be a deterrent for Moz? No lock is sacrosanct if he has a mind to open it.”

     Their affair, or whatever this thing was between them, progressed slowly behind the curtain of the night’s darkness. It never spilled over into the business hours at the Bureau. Neal kept waiting for it all to implode, but one day rolled over into the next with no thunderclouds on the horizon. Peter was a patient and considerate lover, seemingly satisfied with using lips and tongue to bring Neal to climax after climax. Neal felt like he was in a bubble when he lay in Peter’s arms after the older man’s hands had wrung every ounce of passion from him. However, with the uncanny intuition of a conman, Neal innately sensed that Peter really wanted more. The once traumatized young man didn’t know if he could handle that.

     Neal, of course, was right. In the midst of their foreplay one night, Peter’s fingers sinuously dipped behind Neal’s scrotum, and he teasingly rubbed the tight ring of muscle with his index finger. Neal immediately tensed, and the older man whispered, “Just relax, Neal. I promise that I won’t hurt you. I’ll make it good, so good. You’ll see.”

     Peter then availed himself of a copious amount of lube that he now kept in Neal’s bedside drawer. He warmed it between his palms and then slowly returned one finger to Neal’s hole. Neal actually found himself shaking and his erection wilting as Peter pushed inside. Peter was not to be deterred. Eventually he was able to insert two probing digits that reamed and scissored back and forth in tandem with the attention that his lips and tongue were giving Neal’s half-hard cock. Reaching deeper to the shaking man’s hot spot, he let his fingers play an etude on that organ until Neal was completely hard once again. Pulling at the conman’s cock with a free hand while the other massaged and titillated within the hot depths, he whispered, “Come for me, Neal. Come for me!”

     Neal froze. Someone had said that to him before in the hazy reaches of his subconscious. He knew that it had not been Kate. She was never very vocal during their lovemaking. However, he gave up on his bafflement as exquisite pleasure overwhelmed him and he rode it to its sensuous conclusion.

     Peter seemed inordinately pleased with himself, as he pulled the strings to make Neal come time after time. A week later, he upped the ante. Neal now noticed that there were condoms in his drawer nestled beside the tube of lubricant.

     Neal looked Peter in the eye nervously. “I don’t know if I can do this,” he admitted.

     The agent’s face was a picture of concern as he answered softly, “Trust me, Neal. I promise that I won’t hurt you.”

     Of course, Peter now knew all the right buttons to push to get Neal’s attention. Even though the young man was anxious, he wanted to please his mentor who had been nothing but kind to him. Peter took him slowly through the foreplay and the stretching, and then told Neal to get up on his hands and knees. Neal heard the foil on the condom packet tear and then the squish of more lubricant. Even though he knew what was coming, he actually startled when he felt the head of Peter’s cock touch his hole. Peter’s hands had a grip on his hips as he slowly pushed in and out making steady progress until he was buried balls deep in Neal’s heat.

     Neal’s hands, meanwhile, had a death grip on the sheets, and his erection was now a thing of the past as he sweated and panted trying to get his taut muscles to relax. Peter’s weight took them both down to the mattress, but he instinctively turned them onto their side before Neal panicked. He reached around to grasp Neal’s flaccid cock while he moved languidly inside and out of Neal from behind. For once, he could not make Neal rise to the occasion, but his own need was asserting itself and his thrusts began more fevered and intense until he came with a curse.

     When Peter finally pulled out and turned Neal over, there were tears streaming down the young man’s anguished face. The agent knew that these were the tears that Neal had never shed while being raped by Peter years before. Suddenly all the guilt and despair that the agent, himself, had buried long ago came heaving to the surface once again. He had been a monster back then and now he discovered that his own eyes were stinging with unshed tears. How could he make up for what he had done? The big question that loomed in his racing mind was had he really changed or was he still that depraved creature?

**********

     Peter had made a promise to Neal that things would get better, and they did. At least three times a week, Peter spent the whole night and they learned each other’s preferences and eccentricities. More often than not, Peter continued to take Neal from behind, or had Neal mount him and sit astride. The conman never could maintain an erection if Peter loomed above him, and Peter never pushed that issue because he knew exactly why that was.

     Mozzie was still a presence in Neal’s life, but was wise enough to respect his friend’s boundaries. He was no fool, and without Neal saying a word, the little bald man knew the score. It did not stop him from worrying, though. One night, sans Peter, he confronted Neal.

     “Just what are you getting out of this little arrangement, mon frère, besides the obvious? Can’t you find some sweet young thing that will serve the same purpose? Do you have to get laid by ‘The Man’?”

   Neal was affronted. “Don’t be crass, Moz. That’s not like you. Besides, my love life is none of your business.”

     Mozzie arched an eyebrow. “So you’re calling this ‘love’ now? Personally, I think it’s Stockholm syndrome. Peter gets you out of jail like some white knight in shining armor and you think that you owe him. Maybe you’re just trying to work through some issues from years ago that you never came to terms with at the time.”

     Neal wheeled around and his face was thunderous, but he bit back whatever he had been about to say. Once something had been said, you could not unsay it, and his own fury frightened him.

     Mozzie saw the emotions twist his friends face, and decided that the silence had been going on for too long. It seemed cruel, but he needed to rip open that wound so that Neal could expel the malignant fragments that lurked just below the surface.

     In a gentle voice, he asked softly, “You have never talked about what was done to you, Neal, or who did it. I know it must have been horrible, but there are a lot of unanswered questions. You told me who shot you, but what happened after that, my friend? Someone must have saved your life, but then I am guessing that same someone also took away another part of your life. Do you remember anything before you called me from Canal Street?”

     In a voice that was just as soft, Neal answered, “I never saw his face. He kept me blindfolded and drugged until one day he allowed me to be awake for the real torture. I don’t know how I ended up with some weirdly mute golem under Canal Street. I know that he wasn’t the one who hurt me over and over. I just don’t know who did that or even why,” Neal finished lamely.

     Mozzie gave this some thought. “I suppose the glib answer is that you’re just too damn pretty for your own good, but we’re both too worldly wise to accept that excuse. Rape is all about violent domination and control and inflicting your will on someone who cannot protect themselves. It is about being depraved and causing pain just because you can, and loving every minute of it. It is sick, it is evil, and there is no justification for somebody to ever do that to another human being. You can’t imagine how sorry I am that you had to endure that.”

     When there was no response from Neal who had turned away, Mozzie asked in a small voice, “I guess that’s why I am surprised that you would let the Suit do whatever he does to you. Is that your way of exorcising the demons?”

     Neal finally answered. “He cares about me, Mozzie. He doesn’t hurt me.”

     “Would you tell me if he did?” Mozzie questioned.

     “Probably not,” Neal answered honestly.

     Unfortunately, Mozzie had no retort for this. He sighed deeply and touched Neal’s arm affectionately before making his way out the door. In his heart, Mozzie really could not see this ending well for the man he had known for most of his young life—not at all. But this time, he swore that he would not lose his best friend. This time he would definitely watch Neal’s back!


	5. Chapter 5

     Despite Neal’s insistence that all was copacetic in his relationship with Peter, the fickle Jetstream was ferrying in bad weather that ominously darkened the landscape. Neal would be the first to admit that his own behavior predicated its arrival. To borrow a phrase from Mozzie’s idol, Gordon Taylor, “Fish don’t do well out of water.” Ergo, Neal and Mozzie had reverted to type and did what made them the best in their sphere of expertise.

     First, there was Neal’s determined effort to track down Agent Garrett Fowler with almost disastrous results. Not long after, the clandestine Nazi treasure debacle followed. Then there was the forged Degas. The list of furtive capers went on and on. Peter knew that Neal was responsible for all of them and more, even though he couldn’t prove it. Nevertheless, Neal paid the price.

     Peter barely tolerated Neal’s presence in the White Collar office during these tense instances, but once they were alone in Neal’s loft, all bets were off. Now, more often than not, the mutually satisfying sex became something akin to two fierce gladiators facing off in a Roman arena. The fucking was aggressive, fast, and rough, with Neal trying to give as good a he got. However, he was inevitably overwhelmed by Peter’s larger body mass. The savage couplings were no longer confined to just the bed. Peter had no problem slamming Neal into a wall or forcing him over the table, and the unspoken taboo of no frontal fucking went by the wayside. In fact, Peter seemed to take gleeful satisfaction in looming over the slighter man under him, capturing his wrists, and kneeing his legs apart. He would then shove into Neal and pound away as he leered into the conman’s contorted face.

     For Neal, this was like a replay of those atrocious days of captivity when he had felt so helpless. Peter’s tight hands restraining him were reminiscent of being tied down during his assault. He tried to breathe through his mouth so that he wouldn’t inhale the sharp reek of sweaty, primal musk through his nostrils. That smell always brought on insistent waves of nausea, which Neal never understood.

     Afterwards, Peter would tell Neal how sorry he was for hurting him, but constantly reiterated that Neal had simply pushed him to the breaking point. If Peter could only trust Neal to stay on the straight and narrow, this would not keep happening. The recipient of these lectures just stared at him with deep, unfathomable blue eyes and said nothing.

     Mozzie, as sharp as ever, saw the bruises and knew that they blossomed only after visits from Neal’s handler. Never one to mince words, he confronted Neal one evening when they were not graced with Peter’s presence.

     “Why don’t you just put an end to this, Neal? He is supposed to be your handler, not your lord and master. Stop thinking of yourself as a victim with no alternatives. Go over his head if you have to, but, for God’s sake, stop this madness before Peter takes it too far!”

     Neal’s tone was sharp when he responded. “And just what am I supposed to say, Moz?

     ‘ _I allowed him to do it at first, Agent Hughes, but now I have changed my mind. Please tell him to stop.’_

That should go over _really_ well! It would be my word against his, so just whom do you think the FBI fraternity is going to back? I’d be cozying up in my old cell so fast, it would make your head spin!”

     “There’s always the alternative,” Mozzie said definitively. “Just say the word and we can be gone before they even see our dust.”

     Neal shook his head. “I’ve got to see this through, Moz. Ultimately, I want to be off this leash and free, not forever looking over my shoulder and wondering when Peter will show up on my doorstep. Besides, this kind of thing doesn’t happen all the time, so I can get through it.”

     Neal was right—there were those days when Peter had Neal to thank for cracking the tough cases that made Peter’s stats soar so that he was the FBI’s new poster boy for success. Neal had mastered the art of reading Peter’s body language, and knew that on those nights the agent would be gentle and loving. The conman now experienced what it felt like to deal with a dominant and volatile personality that was almost schizophrenic in nature. He lived each day on tenterhooks, and sometimes wondered if his vow to tough it out was realistic much less doable.

     One day, the tipping point in this ongoing drama came from an unexpected direction—a saucy redhead with an ax to grind. Insurance investigator, Sara Ellis, had it in for Neal, but as many a lady in Neal’s orbit had discovered, the handsome man’s charm and charisma ultimately eroded any antipathy that she still harbored. Sara had her eyes wide open, but, nonetheless, found herself smitten and falling hard and fast. Neal was smart, he was outrageous, he was fun, and she loved being near him.

     Sara was the first woman in Neal’s life since Kate, and it took a lot of soul-searching for him to give himself permission to feel affection again. It definitely had not escalated to love in his mind, but Sara was exciting to be around and a delightful challenge. He managed to keep up with her intellectually, and their back and forth repertoire was a welcome distraction. She was soft but adventuresome in bed, and Neal reveled in their lusty games and the soaring, sensuous heights of pleasure. He felt as if the old Neal had come alive once again.

     Peter watched from the sidelines like the Greek chorus, and waited to see how this would play out. He respected Sara Ellis’ acumen and her savvy, but had never expected her to topple in Neal’s wake like the Colossus of Rhodes. Pretentiously, he gave lip service in her support, saying that she was a good influence on Neal. However, in his mind, she was encroaching on his territory. When he came to pick up Neal one morning, the door to the loft was locked. After Peter pounded and gained entrance, Sara came waltzing out of the bathroom, collected her handcuffs, and hurriedly left. Of course, it was obvious that she had spent the night and Peter saw red.

     It was not hard to read Peter’s body language that night. He was like a tightly coiled spring, and he had brought two sets of his own handcuffs.

     “If this is what you like, Neal, why didn’t you ever tell me,” he taunted. He then backhanded Neal, dragged him to the bed and handcuffed each wrist to the bedframe since the headboard was solid wood. Rigid fingers pushed into Neal’s tight hole as the young man suppressed a cry of pain. Peter pummeled Neal’s prostate while his other fingers encircled the base of Neal’s penis in a tight grip. The stimulation without release went on for what seemed like hours to Neal, until Peter’s harsh need overcame him and his cock replaced his hand inside of the conman. This was the first time that Peter had neglected to use a condom, and without any lube, the agony was excruciating. He pounded Neal violently telling him, “I’m going to mark you with my cum—leave a stain that says your mine. Do you think that your little girlfriend will smell me on you?”

     Peter came with a harsh shout and Neal felt the searing heat inside of him. It was then that the sensations of this encounter took Neal’s mind to another place, and the magnitude of the incongruity hit him with alarming clarity. He thought that he was losing his mind and did not want to put words to what his brain was suggesting.

     “ _Just get through this right now_ ,” his id urgently pushed him into survival mode! “ _Just endure this, and then your higher brain functions can unknot that puzzle later.”_

     So, that is what Neal did, as if he had any choice.

**********

     The next evening, Neal had a long heart to heart with Mozzie. Neal’s best friend listened attentively, his brow creased in concentration. Then he left the apartment for one of his bat caves with a terse, “I’m on it!”

     Two nights later, he returned bearing the fruits of his labors. Thankfully, Peter was in a budget crisis at the Bureau and had lugged home boxes of invoices and ledgers to his house in Brooklyn. A visit to Neal was out of the question. Serendipitously, Sara was chasing down a missing Vermeer in Chicago, so Neal and Mozzie had the loft to themselves.

   The little bald man had an eidetic memory, so he could recall the exact dates that Neal had been missing over seven years ago. With his cunning hacking ability, he had accessed the FBI’s database and pulled up Peter’s entire file since he had been working in the White Collar office. He had traced back the agent’s movements for that time, and had discovered that he had taken a sudden emergency leave of absence for the exact same time frame.

     Continuing to lay out evidence, he told Neal that he had also found out that Peter had inherited a small cabin in the Adirondack mountains after his parents passed away.

     “I know that you said that you were blindfolded and drugged, but is there anything that you can recall feeling or hearing at any time that might suggest that this is where you could have been held?” Mozzie questioned.

     Neal’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “When I was awake, it was very quiet. I don’t recall traffic noises like sirens or horns. Sorry, Moz. I guess I’m no help there.”

     “Doesn’t matter,” Mozzie crowed, “because I’ve saved the piece de resistance for last, the smoking gun in this horror story.”

     Neal was morbidly curious and he urged Mozzie to continue. He wanted to know, but was really afraid to hear what he suspected. It was like contemplating taking a step through a black hole in his orderly universe.

     “Through a friend of a friend, I got a name, Neal. There is this Iraqi who now works at a jewelry store on 46th Street. My source told me that years ago he was the go-to ‘patch ‘em up guy’ for the mob. Apparently, he once practiced medicine in his own country, but couldn’t get his medical license when he arrived in the States. So, I paid him a visit at his home out on Staten Island. I braved that abysmal ferry and everything. You owe me big time, mon frère!

     Anyway, to make a long story short, this guy’s reticence to talk suddenly evaporated when his bank account received mucho lucre courtesy of our little slush fund. Suddenly, he recalled being harassed by the intimidating Agent Burke one night many years before. According to the ersatz doctor, the agent had a gravely sick young man with a bullet wound in his thigh in the back seat of his car. To make this Federal irritant go away, the doc gave him a trunk load of supplies and antibiotics as well as the assorted sedatives and libido enhancers. According to the doctor’s prognosis, the man was not destined to survive.”

     Neal closed his eyes as he tried to process what his unconscious had been telling him for quite awhile.

     “I just don’t understand why,” he finally whispered.

     Of course, Mozzie came up with a quote. “ _Ours is not to reason why; ours is but to do or die._ ”

     Mozzie raised his eyebrows at Neal. Getting no response he added, “That’s from Alfred Lord Tennyson’s ‘ _Charge of the Light Brigade,_ ’ in case you’re interested.”

     After a beat, the little literary scholar asked curiously, “So are you gonna ‘ _do or die_ ,’ Neal?”

     “Maybe it _is_ time for me to ‘ _take_ _charge and do_ ,’” the young man answered decisively.

     “You know,” Mozzie began, “if you need assistance for the payback, I still have connections out in the Motor City. There may be a couple of guys who wouldn’t be adverse to rolling into town for the night to cause a bit of pain, maybe break a couple of legs.”

     Neal smiled at his friend. “Thanks for the offer, Moz, but this is definitely something that I want to take care of myself in my own way. Peter needs to know, without a doubt, that I am the one wrecking havoc in his life and why.”

**********

     A little over two weeks later, Neal had his opportunity. Peter had been given the prestigious honor of speaking at an FBI seminar being held in San Francisco over a three-day period. He was to address the Agent/CI relationship. Neal thought that was hysterically ironic. Exactly what relationship would the agent chose to talk about to his peers? The higher ups on the food chain in New York flatly refused to sign off on the paperwork for Neal to accompany him, so one of Peter’s minions in White Collar was given the dubious honor of hovering over Neal in Peter’s absence.

     After the workday ended at the office, Peter dragged Neal home to his townhouse while he did last minute packing before the red eye flight out of JFK. The threats never stopped as Peter promised mayhem if Neal put one toe out of line while he was gone. Neal let it go in one ear and out the other. He serenely perched on the agent’s bed and made sure that the shirts and ties coordinated so that his handler wouldn’t look like the epitome of a fashion “Don’t.”

     Peter’s bedroom was the typical man cave, spartan and austere, with no knickknacks or pictures in frames. This was the first time that Neal was ever in the bedroom since their relationship had always been relegated to Neal’s loft. Peter definitely did not want the Marshals to see the tracking anklet staying overnight in Brooklyn. The only odd piece of furniture in the room was the wooden blanket chest at the foot of the bed. While Peter was in the bathroom collecting toiletries, Neal’s curiosity was piqued and he tried to explore the contents of the chest. When he attempted to lift the lid, he found that it was locked, and that intrigued the conman. Why lock up linens, he wondered?

     Finally, it was time for the agent to make the trek to the airport, two hours early as designated by the security-conscious airlines. He offered to take Neal home, but his CI told him not to bother. He would cab it back to his apartment. Neal did take a taxi for exactly six blocks, and then he had the driver return him to Peter’s house.

     He was back inside within minutes, the security alarm and locks being child’s play, as was the lock on that blanket chest. At first, he was a bit disappointed because there were sheets and a comforter on top. However, the real treasure trove was underneath. Neal stared in fascination at an impressive collection of vibrators, dildos, cock rings, handcuffs, and leather whips. Peter had enough stuff in there that he could open his own erotica shop. However, there was one thing that struck a chord in the sneak thief’s heart. Inside of a plastic bag was a pillow. As Neal pulled it out, he noted that the utilitarian white case was covered in old stains that had darkened over time. Brown streaks and patches, which he instinctively knew were dried blood, were in evidence as well as desiccated yellowish ones. Neal rocked back on his heels as the enormity hit him once again. Peter had taken a trophy! Undoubtedly, that pillow, containing remnants of Peter’s ejaculate and Neal’s blood, was the canvas upon which a week of depravity had been painted.

**********

     Exactly two hours later, when Peter’s plane had ascended to cruising altitude, he received a text on his phone from Neal. “ _The sparrow has taken flight_!” With a sinking dread, Peter recognized the literary connection and knew exactly what would happen next. Almost immediately, another text flooded in from the Marshal’s service. Neal had cut his anklet and was in the wind.

     As soon as he had retrieved his luggage on the West coast, Peter booked another turn-around flight back to New York. He kept in constant contact with his office and the Marshals, but, as he instinctively knew, they had no leads on his CI’s whereabouts. He was the only one capable of tracking the conman down. He had done it before and he could do it again. Neal had pulled this little stunt to embarrass Peter, and he would pay dearly with a one-way ticket back to Sing Sing for a very long time.

     Peter was bone tired when he reached his townhome after flying almost non-stop for twelve hours. He would take up the chase after a few hours of shut-eye. He dragged his suitcase and carry-on to the bedroom and was prepared to drop in his tracks onto the mattress when something caught his eye. A small, white origami elephant was perched atop the blanket chest. The little pachyderm was sitting up with his two front legs holding another piece of paper. With a sense of foreboding, Peter pulled the folded missive from the tiny creature’s grasp.

     In his neat block letters, Neal had written, “ _Elephants never forget, but just so that I never forget, I took a keepsake. Now a part of you will always be with me_.”

     With shaking hands, Peter tried to open the blanket chest. It remained locked, but when had that ever stopped Neal Caffrey from getting what he wanted. Peter fished his key ring from his pocket and knew exactly what he would find missing when he opened the piece of furniture. Of course, the pillow was gone, and Peter felt the ominous, overwhelming shift in the power dynamic.

     The wily little CI now held a Damocles sword over his handler’s head, and Peter would never be sure that he wouldn’t bring it down with a vengeance. He instinctively knew that Neal would never descend into the realm of violence or brutality in his retaliation. It just wasn’t in his nature. Nonetheless, if the residual DNA on that pillow ever saw the light of day, it would be the ignominious death knell for the once revered agent. Even if Neal was somehow apprehended by other law enforcement, he now possessed compelling and damning evidence that he could offer as a reason for his flight from his FBI handler.

     Peter’s punishment for his depravity had just begun, and he resigned himself to the harsh, almost debilitating truth that he could never hunt his quarry again. As much as it hurt, he also hoped that his obsession would stay gone from his life forever. Neal was now free. The ironic mockery of the situation was that Peter would have to do everything in his power to make sure that he would always stay that way!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Flight of the Sparrow” is a novel by Amy Belding Brown. It depicts the story of Mary Rowlandson, an Early American settler in the New World, who was taken and held captive by hostile Indians. Mary witnesses harrowing brutality but also unexpected kindness. To her confused surprise, she is drawn to her captor’s seemingly straightforward way of life, and begins to question who she has become.


End file.
